Not Magic Enough (11 page)

“The reins are yours,” Dorovan said, content simply to be in her presence.

She had a quiet soul, full of warmth and energy, but content with her place, her life.

The deep woods that nearly surrounded her homestead closed around them, close and secret, so like Talaena and all the other Enclaves it was almost like home, save there were no Veils, no verandas, no homes and walkways among the trees.

Here only the birds moved among the tree tops, not his people.

Dorovan knew the great Gorge wasn’t so far away, but far enough.

Then the trees parted to reveal a little glade brilliant with sunlight and spangled with the little white flowers that grew in neat circles that men called Fairy rings. Such flowers grew over the graves of Elves who’d died in truth, who hadn’t passed on to the Summerlands.

Not here, though, here was just a place of warmth and beauty, of flowers and sunlight, bright green mosses and the thick green grasses.

It stood on a little rise. Through a break in the trees they could see Delae’s homestead in the near distance, framed by the hills around it.

Here in this little glade, though, the sun was warm and there was no one but themselves.

He felt an odd sense of familiarity with this place. For a moment, Dorovan went still. He’d seen this place before…then he smiled as it came to him.

“The tapestry?”

She nodded. “I know you’ve worried about my people seeing you come here or someone spotting you by chance. But we can meet here safely and I can still watch over my people.”

It had been a concern, a risk he was willing to take to see her but it was better without it. With a laugh Dorovan caught her up in his arms, wrapping them around her hips to lift her into the air with a smile.

Here he didn’t have to worry about betraying himself or his people and they could share their pleasure in each other freely. In the wintertime, closed in by the snows, there was less concern…

Although he could only stay a short while, it was enough.

The sudden sense of pain was shocking, surprising and yet oddly not alarming. What Dorovan sensed through their friend-of-the-heart bond from Delae was joy. It was puzzling and a shock to realize it had been six months or more as men measured such things since he’d seen her last. Summer waned and fall was nearly upon them. It was so easy to forget how brief their time together might be when you lived so long, especially when she was so much a part of his heart, so he knew her joys and sorrows, as now.

Suddenly the need to see her was sharp, intense. He missed her deeply.

It might not be a soul-bond but it still brought them both much joy.

Charis waited, his ears pricked, eager to be on their way, not just racing around the vale with the other horses. Like Dorovan himself, the horse had a restless soul.

Dorovan could sense Delae long before he saw her as he and Charis picked their way through the trees of the forest, already anticipating the time to be spent with her.

The last time they’d talked of many things, eaten what Delae had brought in the picnic basket, made love on the sweet grass and simply basked with each other in the sunlight. It had eased the longing and the loneliness for them both.

He stepped into the glade to find her sitting there, her glorious hair tumbling around her shoulders, so brilliant in the sunlight.

There was something different about her, a glow, and then he stepped closer.

For a moment his heart both lifted and stopped, looking at what she held in her arms. A part of him longed for what he saw even as another part feared.

Clearly, seeing the look in her eyes, he wasn’t alone in that.

Delae looked up at Dorovan and her own heart caught to see him.

“Her name is Selah,” she said, softly.

Amazed, Dorovan reached out to touch the baby’s soft cheek, the downy hair. She was beautiful, perfect, with her pretty little pursed mouth.

There was no sign of Elven ears.

Her eyes uncertain, unsure, Delae said, in answer to the question he couldn’t ask, “I don’t know.”

As much as she wished the baby to have been Dorovan’s, there had been Kort that one night…and Elves weren’t a fertile race. It was unlikely.

Dorovan looked at the wonder that was the child. Among his people any child was a gift and a joy.

“It doesn’t matter, Delae. For us or for her. My people have so few children we would welcome another if she proves to be of my race.”

Some would be concerned but if Selah were Elven she would be taken into Talaena when she was old enough. It might be awkward but he was Elf, it was the way of his people.

“Mine or not,” Dorovan said, “she is yours and for that alone I love her.”

Something inside Delae eased and she closed her eyes with relief.

Touching her cheek, Dorovan said, “Will you never learn? You are loved, Delae. And she is, too. Can I hold her?”

She smiled. “Of course.”

With the wide-eyed wonder of all babies, Selah looked up at him, her arms and legs kicking as he held her.

Children were such a joy to his folk - so rare, so precious.

For a time they simply played with the baby and talked before Delae put her to her breast to feed.

That, too, was a wonder, the simple magic of mother and child together.

Lifting her eyes, Delae met Dorovan’s gaze and they shared the pleasure, Dorovan brushing her hair back, feeling the connection through the bond they shared.

They made love while the baby slept.

Kort returned only briefly to see the child but he did so only at sword point, Delae adamant. She wouldn’t let that drunken reprobate touch her baby, however much she might be his, too. Dorovan had given her more lessons. Never again would she be forced against her will to anything. She would defend her home and family to the death.

As the years passed it never became possible to tell if Selah was Elven or not. She gave no sign of it although she was an unusually healthy baby and child. Her ears were shaped a little differently but not with the distinctive Elven points. There was no sign of the magic with which Elves were born. In every way she was her mother’s daughter, save her hair was straighter and darker and her eyes were as brown as a doe’s, as Delae’s mother’s had been. She would be taller than her mother but Kort was tall. In the shape of her face, though, the set of her eyes, her mouth, she was Delae’s.

To Kort’s disgust.

Dorovan was more father to Selah than Kort ever was, whether in body or presence.

If she was Elven, they wouldn’t know it for years as she failed to age as men did. The only other sign was her gift for working with plants and herbs as his folk did, but some men had a touch of that gift as well. She had no hand with a sword nor did she desire one.

Delae loved watching them together, Selah with her head slightly bent, her brown eyes turned up to look at Dorovan.

After a time, they simply forgot to think about it, Dorovan loved sweet quiet Selah as if she were his own, for herself, and she loved him as well with her gentle warmth. Many was the time they would work together side by side among the herbs she’d grown, Dorovan instructing her in the uses of them. Or the three of them would sit in the sun, Selah having inherited her mother’s skill with a needle, Delae talking of the changes in the homestead or Dorovan of what went on in the wider world.

Delae aged but as far as Dorovan was concerned she only became more refined as silver threaded through the fire of her beautiful hair.

Word of the Progress had been sent around to all the homesteaders - a celebration of Geric’s coming of age, of his naming as Heir to the Kingdom of Riverford and Delae’s holding wasn’t to be neglected. She’d done well over the years.

The courtyard was abustle with the preparations. Baskets of flowers hung from the posts of the archways of the east and west wings.

Delae had had Kort’s rooms cleared and prepared for the arrival of the King and Queen, the guest chamber for the newly named Heir.

Word had come only the year before that Kort had been found dead in an alley. Oddly some part of Delae grieved for him… more for the fact and manner of his death. She actually mourned for Kort himself very little and grieved because she felt so little for his passing. Any more than she’d grieved at the loss of his parents. She’d wept more and harder when Petra had died and then Hallis had followed her shortly after.

The homestead seemed far emptier for the loss of those two than it did for the loss of those whose blood had once owned it.

Even so, she never slept in Kort’s rooms and never would.

Sighing, she put those thoughts aside, smiling as she watched Selah gently instruct sweet Lucie and Lucie’s daughter Keran in the preparations.

The great room had been swept clean of every grain of the old rushes, the wood floor had been washed, oiled and new rushes put down over it before the precious carpets had been restored to their proper places. All the shutters were open to allow fresh air inside, the light falling brilliantly over the chairs Delae had made, each seat cushion carefully decorated in her own tapestry.

All of the bedrooms and bed linens had been aired and freshened - the straw ticking replaced and the straps on the beds tightened.

Tables had been set out under the trees of the courtyard for feasting in the open - in the air and sun. A great pit had been dug, a side of beef and another of mutton roasted over a fire. There were platters of roasted vegetables and all manner of delicacies.

Delae looked over it all with satisfaction.

Out in the fields horses and cattle roamed with the sheep, cropping the rich green grass. The homestead had become much more prosperous, more settled as the years passed.

She shook then smoothed out her skirts.

“They’re coming,” Morlis’s son Alen called, racing in through the gates.

Selah stepped to her side and Delae threaded her fingers through those of her daughter’s, feeling Selah’s other hand close over hers.

It always astonished Delae that now she had to look up into Selah’s eyes.

More, how truly lovely she was.

There was only a trace of red in Selah’s rich brown hair and hers waved more than it curled, but it was lovely. Slender and less curved than Delae, she was graceful and beautiful in her serene and quiet way. Delae well knew she was a doting mother but she didn’t think she was deceived in this.

She raised her daughter’s hand to her lips and kissed it as Selah’s shoulder brushed hers in return.

Pride washed through her as her people took up their places, Dan at his forge, Morlis and Alen waiting to hold the horses. Lucie and Keran were there, with Bara, Morlis’s wife, at their back. Some of the smallholders were scattered around the courtyard. It made a pretty and welcoming picture.

The King and Queen rode in with their son Geric at their side and they made a pretty picture as well.

Hastan had always been a big and comely man, nearly as broad as a Dwarf, but he’d also been a very fair man, if occasionally too strong-willed and independent for the prospective High King, Daran. That was to be expected from Riverford, though. It had always been an independent-minded Kingdom, if not so much so as Marakis.

His close-cropped hair curled just slightly around his head and his strongly-boned face. It was easy to see why Telerach had fallen in love with him but more so for the look in his eyes when he reached a hand to his Lady-wife as they rode between the gates.

As it was easy to see why he’d fallen in love with her.

There was a merry warmth to Telerach that reached out to touch everyone around her. While not quite as curly as Delae’s, Telerach’s honey-colored hair tumbled nearly to her waist, framing an apple-cheeked face that was more pretty than beautiful but the kindness in it shone.

The love between King and Queen was clear and deep.

No other hand but the King’s would lift his Queen down from her saddle and Delae felt a small gush of sorrow for what she would never truly know. Then she put it aside as Hastan gestured for his son to join them.